


Soft Revolution

by prairiestar



Category: British Comedy RPF, Goth Detectives RPF, The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: First Time, Friendship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mentions of Noel/Julian and Noel/Dee, Past Drug Addiction, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiestar/pseuds/prairiestar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russell maps the boundaries of friendship and intimacy with Noel. Flirting, heteroflexibility, exploration of sober sexuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Noel laughs as they come through the door and giggles as they mount the staircase, breathing little tickling puffs of happiness on the back of Russell’s neck when they enter the kitchen one behind the other. Russell stops abruptly to avoid impaling the cat with the pointy toe of his boot, and Noel collides gently with him. It’s almost embarrassing, the obvious way he allows himself to bump into Russell so that they touch just a moment too long, chest to back, arse to crotch. Noel giggles again.  
  
“This is brilliant! I’d no idea you lived so close.” Noel’s hand slides casually down Russell’s back as he manoeuvres gracefully around him and into the room. “Can I just get a beer while you change?”  
  
Russell’s clothes are wet. Someone spilled a drink on him at the club, all fruity and slushy and sticky. “No, I ain’t got any beer. They keep putting bloody alcohol in it.” He arches an eyebrow at Noel, as if to say ‘think about it, son.’  
  
“Right. Sorry.” Noel smiles sheepishly. “I'm not used to- well, I don't have any other sober friends.”  
  
“Well...I wouldn’t say sober. There’s lots what you can get a high from that don’t have to be drugs or alcohol.” He peels his shirt off then, arms crossed gracefully over his head as he pulls off the thin, stretchy cotton. Balls it up and tosses it at Noel, who bats it away without blinking an eye. “Like endorphins and things. From yoga, or a bracin’ stroll in the park or climbin’ a tree or summink.” He’s all camp, ooh yes. Noel purses his lips and nods in sage agreement, his eyes focused all the while on Russell’s handsome torso.  
  
As a little experiment, Russell rubs his chest with the side of his thumb and then notes the way that Noel’s eyes follow the small movements across his skin. Male desire hasn’t made him nervous since drama school, but for some reason Russell feels a little off around Noel, sort of fake and stiff. Pun very much intended.  
  
Noel’s eyes meet his then. Noel’s eyes are a big part of the problem; wide and sparkling and summery blue like some story book character’s come to life. His features are a delicious collision of masculine and feminine; glossy locks and hard-angled jaw, dark, fluttering lashes and afternoon stubble. Russell can’t help but stare, even though he often gets caught.  
  
They have these shocking little moments sometimes, a sudden, silent connection in which all the performance drops away. It terrifies Russell, and he thinks it must scare Noel at least a little as well. It's obvious to him that the compulsion to always be ‘on’ is such a huge part of their similarity to each other. When they really catch a glimpse of each other between all the joking, through all the material, it’s not fun anymore. It feels, Russell thinks, like staring into a mirror in your therapist’s waiting room just before walking into the office for a session.  
  
His eyes dart away, almost as fast as Noel’s.  
  
“We going back out, then?” Noel nods at Russell’s naked torso. “D’you want to...?”  
  
Russell gawps for a moment, astounded that Noel has just cut through all the games and propositioned him. Then he realizes that Noel just wants him to put some clothes on so they can leave and hit the next club. ‘Because, dear, idiot boy,’ Russell reminds himself, ‘not everyone consciously evaluates their surroundings for possible sex partners three times per minute, or worries that someone they actually like will proposition them because then they’ll have to refuse.’ Russell dreads having to explain to Noel that it’s not, surprisingly, the gay thing, it’s more the lack of trust he has in himself and the fear of losing a friendship simply because he might not be able to control a habit. It’s been a while, but he knows deep down the sort of callousness he‘s still capable of. He likes Noel, sometimes quite a bit and quite tenderly. But he’s done filthy, careless things to people he’s liked much more.  
  
Then there’s the fact that he’s just turned down a very friendly and staggeringly casual offer of oral sex from a very pilled-up Courtney the previous evening, and there’s seriously only so much a recovering sex addict can resist.  
  
“Yeah. I’ll go and find a shirt.” Russell turns on his heel and leaves.  
  
Of course, he can’t find a good one. All his shirts, every single one, seem hideous or strangely shaped, or he bought them on his own and doesn’t dare violate Sharon’s rule of only wearing stylist-approved outfits when clubbing. Or they’re the wrong shade of black, too red-ish or grey-ish or blue-ish black to match his jeans. It’s one of those increasingly rare but still irritating moments when all his clothes look the same, and none of them look good.  
  
“Russell?”  
  
Fuck. Shirtless in the bedroom, a big soft lovely bed right there, smooth and pristine like a sexy cloud just waiting to be tumbled passionately upon. And a funny, gorgeous, totally gorgeous, practically a girl he’s so gorgeous mate, who’s also got his shirt off now, which is both unexpected and terribly logical. If Noel were a woman, they’d so clearly be headed for sex right now. There’d be no chance of misunderstanding.  
  
This is unplanned, unwise, ill-advised, and Russell can sort of feel his brain start to sweat. He’s got to nip it in the bud before it starts.  
  
“I was thinking...” Noel bites his lip, shy and questioning.  
  
Fuck. “Listen. It weren’t my plan at all tonight to lay all sorts of sad recovery lines on you, but we already very briefly talked about the other, you know-” he gestures to the kitchen, “and now there’s this going on-” he gestures to Noel’s partial nudity, then his own, “-which is a reasonable development for two handsome rakes like us in a modern, liberal setting, and you’re lovely! Really, really lovely, all Botticelli Slightly too lovely, I think. It still feels quite weird for me to be saying this, but, well, I can’t. I mean, we shouldn’t, that’s all.” Noel’s mouth works silently for a moment, but Russell cuts him off before he can speak. “It’s not a big deal. I- you just need to know where I am. That’s ghastly language, innit? New Age-y, horrible -- I’m right here, obviously! But, it’s sometimes how I’ve got to talk about this business. What I mean is, when we’re already out doing clubs and I’m working to avoid encounters with everything clubs always contain, and-” He sighs again, and just pointedly doesn’t look at Noel’s pale, creamy, fabulously contoured body. Fuck.  
  
“Basically... there are things I don’t do without proper planning and talking and stuff. I’d like to have waited a little longer in our friendship to explain all this shit, but... Here, just don’t worry about it. All you need to trouble yourself with at this point is, for Christ’s sake don’t offer me any drugs. Because with sex already on the table, if you offer me grass or something... I will have to choke you dead out of thwarted desire and sheer fucking frustration.”  
  
Russell closes his eyes. Squinches them shut so tightly that he sees stars. Then slowly, cautiously looks at Noel. Who looks a bit blown away, but manages to utter “Oh... kay.”  
  
Fuck. “Oh god.” Russell hides his face in his palms. Noel giggles. “I’m a huge twat.”  
  
“No! Well…” Noel tilts his head to one side, thinking. “Actually, yeah. Did you think we were gonna have sex?”  
  
“…Weren’t we?”  
  
“Well, I hadn’t really dared to dream, what with you being straight and all.”  
  
“So... why’s your shirt off?”  
  
“Can I have one of yours? I don’t like this one, it fits all weird. The arms are twisty.”  
  
“You’d like one of my shirts.”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
Russell frowns. “Which one?”  
  
Noel shifts from foot to foot, thinking. “What about that _one_ , you know?”  
  
Russell shakes his head, now totally stressed out. “No? Which?”  
  
“The black one. It’s a bit stretchy, it’s got the cut off hem, three-quarter sleeves and the big scoop neck that almost flashes your nipples. You know, the one.”  
  
Noel grins. It’s that big, wide cheeky grin of his. That one.  
  
Russell quickly finds several shirts fitting that description. He wads them up tightly, and with nothing but pure, friendly admiration throws them very hard at Noel’s face.  
  
***  
  
“I’d never offer you drugs.”  
  
The café is less than crowded and their table is fairly isolated. So basically they’re alone. Noel is never really quiet, but he does speak softly sometimes. It’s how Russell imagines he must talk with Julian, when they’ve been writing late into the night and they’re reclining on a bed together, sleepy and relaxed and tender and probably touching each other’s faces. Noel and Julian kissing is one of Russell’s favourite Harmless Gay Fantasies, right next to Smiths-era Morrissey giving Smiths-era Marr a shy, inexpert blow job while sticking his fingers up Marr’s arse.  
  
“Course you wouldn’t.” Russell is sincere.  
  
“I know. So why’d you say that the other night?”  
  
“I… oh. I was joking, I suppose. Nervous.” On reflection, it had been a pretty thoughtless thing to say. He trusts Noel as much as he trusts any of his truly close friends not to do evil, stupid things. That’s why he’s friends with them.  
  
“I don’t even have drugs to offer.”  
  
Russell politely tries to conceal his incredulity by looking towards the windows, examining the trendy, layered outfits of the passers by and the greenish-yellow haze circling each streetlamp. He fails, and Noel hits him on the arm. Their violence towards each other is light, playful and always there.  
  
“I don’t! Just ‘cos I’m skinny-”  
  
“And a freak-”  
  
“And I know Amy-”  
  
“And Courtney-”  
  
“And you-”  
  
“And you never eat-”  
  
“Sometimes! And I, you know-”  
  
“Actually _take_ drugs. Which I‘m not saying in a judgemental way, Christ knows-”  
  
“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean I’m walking around like Pete Doherty with crumpled little plastic baggies falling out of my arse behind me wherever I go like Tinkerbelle, sprinkling a trail of addictive fairy dust all around. There’s a difference, you know, between recreational lines at a party, _maybe_ four times in my whole life, and actually carrying.”  
  
“Yeah Noel, I know. I‘ve done both.” That just sounds boastful when what he means to convey is reassurance and understanding. Russell tries again. “Um, it’s alright.” Noel clearly doesn’t quite believe him, and it ties Russell up in knots to know that he’s hurt Noel’s feelings and can’t completely unhurt them without endorsing Noel’s casual habit. Habits. Because the food thing is undeniable; it would take an idiot not to see that. And the fame, the attention. Clothes, appearance, sex as well, probably. Christ. It’s not pleasant, being trained to notice everyone else’s flaws and weaknesses along with his own.  
  
Noel’s mouth is soft and sweet, a waxy, chapstick strawberry flavor. Russell pulls away when he feels Noel’s body begin to move towards his. He hadn’t realized that he’d closed his eyes until he opens them again. Noel looks puzzled, but pleased.  
  
“What was that for?”  
  
“I thought it the best way to convey my sincerity, Noel. I’ve never thought you were a pusher of drugs. I never imagined it, or anything like it, to be true.”  
  
Noel nods, satisfied. “Alright. You can add that I’m very pretty. Say that as well.”  
  
“You are very pretty. I’d give you a cuddle right here if I weren’t afraid of upsetting your delicate sensibilities.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m a cockney flower.”  
  
“A flower? I dunno darlin’, more like a fruit tart I’d say. Not that I wouldn’t take a bite, sir. Russell Brand, tart explorer, biter of forbidden fruit, that’s me.”  
  
“What makes you think I’d offer?” Noel smirks. “That doesn’t sound remotely like Julian, by the way.”  
  
“Haven’t you already?”  
  
“No, that was you imagining that I was offering. And I’m not.”  
  
“Why?” The pleading note of disappointment in Russell’s voice is only partly manufactured.  
  
“Because I don’t want to deal with your disgruntled attitude when you get my pants off and finally realize that there really, truly is no vagina in there for you to plunder.”  
  
“But we could stick one in… rent one, you can do that, rent one and just place it artfully in front of your actual, male genitals and we could share it, a nice little vagina, tight as you like.”  
  
“Yeah, they don’t really work like that, Russell. I don’t know how many vaginas you’ve actually had sex with-”  
  
“Oh, loads. Five or six.”  
  
“Thousand! But I think what you’re describing is actually called a prostitute. Which I believe you’ve sworn off of, unless I’m wrong. Look, it’s cock or nothing with me, Brand.” Noel twirls a lock of inky black hair on one finger, and Russell’s merry heart does a tiny flip of terror as it races circles around what it really wants from this strange, pointy little man across the table. “You’re just gonna have to do what I’ve done -- accept it and then get over it.”  
  
“Can we not try lesbianism, then? Male lesbianism where we just rub our arses together?”  
  
“That’s… brilliant, actually. Sounds like fun! I don’t think lesbians would appreciate like that bodily metaphor, but…”  
  
“Bit insulting, innit.”  
  
“Yeah. Best not repeat that in mixed company.”  
  
“Yeah. Although Walliams could probably get away with it.”  
  
Noel nods, and they finish their tea in surprisingly comfortable silence.  
  
***  
  
Sometimes they stay in. Russell enjoys the smells of colourful chemicals and the quiet weight of the air in Noel’s cement-floored studio. There is a sofa, perhaps older than him, and he reclines lazily on it and watches Noel clean his brushes. Every twenty minutes or so he reminds himself of his decision not to pursue the terrifying yet compelling possibility of sex with Noel.  
  
“There’s a party, you know. A trendy, trendy party that various celebrities may or may not be at. We could go.”  
  
“I’m not really feeling like it tonight.” Noel’s tone is deliberately casual. “You go if you want, though. I can-”  
  
“Naaah, don’t think I will. Just musing to myself… there’s probably loads more exciting things we could be doing.”  
  
“No there aren’t.” Noel seems happy to report it. “I like staying in sometimes. Painting, or hanging out with Dee when she’s here. And Julian and I used to stay in together loads, before the babies. Play music and write and stuff.” He keeps his eyes on his work, carefully examining each brush to make sure it’s thoroughly cleaned. His voice is perfectly neutral.  
  
“Really.” Russell can pretend not to understand, if that’s what Noel wants. “I thought buildings expelled you automatically when darkness falls, so you can go about all your cool business without having to make excuses to whoever you’re laying about with.”  
  
“That’s what I thought about _you_.” Noel’s fingertips are turning colours from kneading at the paint-clogged bristles of the larger brushes, purple and blue bleeding into his cuticles. “Although I didn’t really get it, you going out places. I can’t imagine, you know, having that much self control.”  
  
“It‘s not that hard when you‘ve written a book about your drug problem. S’a bit like hanging a sign around your neck, telling people to behave around you or face some very dismal karma.”  
  
Noel nods, taking this in. Then he brightens. “Am I your staying in friend, then?” It’s clear to Russell that Noel may recently have been laid off from his previous position as a “staying in friend.” Or at least had his hours significantly cut. The possibility of a new job at Russell’s side makes him glow a little, his delight quiet and self-conscious but still palpable.  
  
“Yeah, I think you are, if you’re into it.”  
  
Noel’s smile does not light up his whole face. He does not beam like the stupid, complacent moon. He does not bounce or giggle with glee. Instead, Russell notices a little twinkle in his eye as he contemplates what exactly may have been offered. “Cool,” he murmurs, and sets another brush down beside the sink. “Brilliant.”  
  
***  
  
Of course it is raining the night that Noel shows up at his flat, red-eyed and distraught.  
  
“Can I come in? Please.” It’s a demand. Russell swallows the witty greeting he’d composed between Noel’s text and the door, and moves aside to let him stalk past and up the stairs.  
  
Noel goes to the bedroom, pulls off his boots and flounces down on the bed, gathers himself into a tight little ball of anger up by the headboard.  
  
“What happened.”  
  
Russell leans in the doorframe. He wonders why Noel hasn’t turned the light on. Well… he doesn’t really.  
  
“Just…” Noel breathes a shaky, disgusted sigh. “Oh, everything you’d expect to.” He pushes his hair back from his face and sniffles a few times. “Are you coming?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Russell says, walking slowly to the bed. He sheds his shirt before he’s halfway there. “Are you going to stick us together then, me and him?”  
  
And Russell stops in his tracks as his words make Noel’s face crumple into tears.  
  
“Oh, shh. Fuck. Noel, love, don’t…”  
  
“It’s not as though I _want_ to!” Russell winces at the querulous whine in Noel’s voice. It’s worse when he swears. “Fuck! He’s so fucking stupid!”  
  
“Yeah,” Russell offers lamely, then closes his eyes in disgust at his own ineptitude. Noel is sniffling, not looking at him, pressing the heels of his hands against his own brow.  
  
“It’s always been like this, me and him, only things have to change, you know?” Noel shakes his head, laughing and sobbing a little at once. “An’ I’m fucking pissed out of my head, so I’m not even making sense.” He looks up then, turns his wet, desperate gaze suddenly on Russell. “Do I ever make sense to you? I feel like I’m underwater, talking through a bunch of fucking wool sometimes!” His smile is a bit twitchy. “That’s why I love you. You um…” He fumbles for his hand, curling his chilled fingers around Russell’s bare wrist. “You seem to appreciate my soggy, woollen tendencies more than others these days.”  
  
Dreading what sort of foolishness will come out of his mouth, Russell simply clamps his lips shut and sinks down on the bed with Noel.  
  
“I’m really fucking sorry, Russell.” Noel’s breathing gets steadier and slower as he talks. “I’ve gotten everything all wet and brought this big mess of shit into your house, and it’s not even important.”  
  
“Seems like.”  
  
But Noel shakes his head. “No, it’s really not. Me and Ju have a row like this every once and a while, and it’s all fine in a couple of days.” He laughs, softly and a little scornfully. “When you’ve been married ten years…” And then he coughs. “I’m just knackered, is all. And I knew you were home.” He bites his lip then, and looks as though he’s about to apologize again but doesn’t.  
  
Russell can’t think of a thing to say that doesn’t involve calling Noel on every subtle manipulation he’s pulled since coming through the door, or asking him about the ones he probably inflicted on Julian earlier in the evening. So he simply shakes his head, dismissing Noel’s apology.  
  
Noel hugs him then. It’s friendly, sleepy and drunk. But it’s also Noel, and so there is a component of sensuality to it. Eroticized hugging. He pulls Noel closer, strokes his back. Does all the things a friend should do, even pulls away when Noel begins to nuzzle pathetically at the joint of his neck.  
  
“D’you want to stay?” Russell asks him, using his thumb to wipe the traces of tears off Noel’s cheek. “I mean, will you?” Noel nods, sniffling again, scowling a little in embarrassment and then gently pushing Russell’s hand away so he can scrub at his own face. Then he nods again, as if to reassure them both.  
  
“Good.” Russell rises. “Gonna get a glass of water.”  
  
He spends a few minutes in the kitchen, wanting to give Noel enough time by himself. He feeds the cat. When he gets back to the bedroom, he realizes he’s forgotten the water. Noel has taken his clothes off and is laying under the duvet, eyes closed, breathing slow.  
  
“C’mon,” he murmurs into the pillow. “It’s alright, I just want to sleep.”  
  
“Alright,” Russell says. And then, half-whispered, “no harm in that.”  
  
He inspects the damp pile of clothes on the floor, lifting up Noel’s jeans and then confirming-- yes, there’s a pair of electric blue briefs with pink waistband balled up underneath. It’s a long minute of indecision until Russell shakes his head, shimmies out of his own jeans, and climbs into bed with his own pants still very much on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up the morning after the first chapter.

When Russell first wakes and finds Noel sprawled naked in bed beside him, his first thought is that they already had sex. He rifles clumsily through his mental back catalogue but finds no recent, sexually explicit memories featuring two sets of male genitals. And yes, the familiar sense of his own treasured, careworn heterosexuality still feels securely fastened on to wherever he’s always had it pinned. (His heart? Over his dick like a loincloth, Beastmaster-style? Straightness just isn't fashionable, even in metaphor.)  
  
Noel’s already got him feeling exhilaratingly queer within moments of waking up, however. Stirring beneath the duvet, Noel reaches out and brushes Russell’s hair from his brow, tucking it gently behind his ear. His fingers brush Russell’s cheek affectionately, as though it is the morning after something far more tender and intimate than last night’s brief and tearful chat.  
  
“Russell?”  
  
“Mmm.” Pretending to be asleep is always a good move in complicated situations, even if it only amounts to a stalling tactic.  
  
“Hi.” Noel speaks slowly and gently, and Russell flutters his closed eyelids, breathes deeply and finally answers with a drowsy smile.  
  
“Russell, I’m going to use your toothbrush. Unless you make me aware of another toothbrush that I can use that’s not yours.”  
  
Russell scowls, eyes still closed, and thinks. “There’s…”  
  
Noel moves then, slides away from him to sit up. Russell feels not quite as toasty warm.  
  
“Yeah?” Noel runs a hand down his back as he asks, as though coaxing the answer from him. It’s hard to act half asleep when he’s being petted like a cat, but Russell wants desperately to seem nonchalant and if he opens his eyes he’s sure Noel will see the nervous delight in them.  
  
“In the drawer. With… under the sink. Middle drawer.”  
  
“Alright.” Noel gets up, and there’s the soft liquid _flump_ of the duvet falling back onto the mattress in his wake. Russell listens some more. Noel’s footsteps are soft and shuffling on the wood floor. He can’t have been awake that long. A moment later and the water’s running in the bathroom.  
  
Russell stretches, yawns, stretches some more and kicks and wriggles around in the bed. Waking up from head to toes, he lays for a moment and stares at the ceiling. Over the last few years, he’s gotten a lot better about not disappointing himself. He swings his legs out of bed, notes that he’s wearing pants, and reminds himself that Noel isn’t.  
  
Noel isn’t singing exactly, but he’s doing some kind of a quiet, catchy little humming song around his toothbrush. Noel’s arse is, of course, adorable, round and perfect and smooth like a girl’s. “What a peach,” Russell remarks as he enters the bathroom, sidling up next to Noel’s and finding his own toothbrush. “Aquafresh, dear?” Noel slaps it lightly into his hand, grinning with a mouth full of minty white foam.  
  
“Rrrrr, MAD DOG!” Noel mugs in the mirror, doing a fair imitation of Paul Reubens.  
  
Russell chuckles around his own brush, and leans over to spit. When he comes up again he catches Noel’s eyes in the mirror, and feels a jolt of excitement.  
  
The games he plays with Noel are different from everyone else. Sometimes he can predict Noel’s every move. Other times, it’s pure guesswork.  
  
“Sorry about last night.” Noel scoops water from the faucet with his hands, and keeps his eyes on Russell’s reflection as he brings the water to his mouth and drinks.  
  
“Never mind.” Russell keeps his gaze locked above the mirror image of Noel’s nipple line. “Besides, you were drunk.”  
  
“Not really,” Noel admits easily. “I’m a good actor though, aren’t I?”  
  
Russell nods, honestly impressed. But not really surprised.  
  
“Don’t be cross,” Noel adds, and Russell’s already shaking his head in vigorous denial before the words are fully out of Noel’s mouth.  
  
“No way.”  
  
“I suppose drunkenness isn’t all that attractive to you though, is it.” There are far more questions in Noel’s face than in what he says. Instead of answering, Russell bends and splashes his face with water a few times. He fumbles for the taps, eyes closed, and splashes again when the water is shockingly cold.  
  
“Hurry,” Noel says. He’s tapping his foot, waiting.  
  
“I’ve got to piss,” Russell counters, wiping the water from his eyes. “Go back to bed.”  
  
Noel looks at him, tilting his head, and then barks a pleasant little laugh. “Okay.” And he goes.  
  
He’s under the duvet when Russell returns to the bedroom, snuggled up with his face nestled into the pillows. So Russell clears his throat dramatically, announcing his presence. Noel rolls over and peeks at him, one-eyed.  
  
“Take your pants off.”  
  
“Why? No. Not yet.” He stands there, awkward. Shifts his weight. It would be nice to keep playing, just for a little while. He’d be happy to play all morning, actually. Just flirting this explicitly with the idea of him and Noel is turning out to be more than enough fun.  
  
But Noel seems intent on moving along to the next round. He bites his lip and watches Russell for a moment more. “Is your willy scared of mine?” Russell snickers, brushing his fingers casually across his cock as he often does at the mention of it. Noel scoots up in bed then, sitting and leaning back on his elbows. “Russell. This is meant to be fun.”  
  
“Nah, I’m not scared. Just…unsure, like.” Russell thinks, thumbing the waistband of his briefs. He touches himself again, cupping himself just for a second’s reassurance, and then grins. “Well yeah, I am scared actually.” And then he climbs onto the bed despite his fear, crawling on his knees over the lumps of Noel’s legs and laying on top of the duvet. He puts about an arms length between himself and Noel, but that doesn’t seem to bother Noel so much as his continued attachment to the scrap of cotton/poly blend covering his privates.  
  
“I’m already naked,” Noel almost brags. “Come on, catch up.”  
  
“You slept naked, you‘ve been naked for hours! I can’t catch up, it’s like catching up in age with an older sibling. I’d have to get somehow _more_ naked, like extra naked.”  
  
“You could give yourself a haircut.”  
  
Noel’s hand starts to sneak across the bed towards him, like a little mouse digging a tunnel under the snow. His fingers stroke the hair on Russell’s arm, teasing, back and forth.  
  
“That’s not stripping, it’s tailoring.”  
  
“Think that way and you’ll never catch up.”  
  
“So why take my pants off at all?” Russell’s trying not to smirk, but it’s ridiculous how much fun it is, for once, to be the one who needs convincing.  
  
“Because of sex, you berk.” Noel moves in then, a graceful slide across the linens that ends with his arms around Russell and their legs tangled together, and everything rubbing up against everything else in this luscious, tingly, teenage way.  
  
“Which I’m-” And Noel kisses him, pursed lips and eyes open like a kid. “-I’d really like to have with you...” Russell kisses back without thinking. It’s great, until he hits the twenty second mark and gets suddenly stuck in his own head, evaluating his own kissing and worrying that Noel doesn’t like his beard (hadn’t Matt said a million times how horrible it was to kiss?) Better not to think then, so he tries to shut the old think box off but it’s hard when there’s a man on the other side of every kiss. It’s almost impossible not to start writing material right now, and wouldn’t that be the best fucking set he’s ever done? Gay sex, has anyone ever even done that? Margaret Cho. Any straight men? Morrissey might come to that one, or perhaps he’d find it vulgar. He runs through a further catalogue of people he knows, fantasizing for split seconds about the shock or envy they would react with if they knew what he was getting up to. The idea of telling Matt about this, or christ, of Julian finding out.  
  
Noel seems to sense what’s going on, and pulls back to glare at him.  
  
“Hi.” He lightly slaps Russell’s cheek. “Did you want to…?”  
  
“Fuck! Sorry!” Russell blushes horribly and licks at his mouth by way of apology. “S’just a lot of really crazy implications-” he drags his open mouth across Noel’s jaw, “-and I’m quite easily distracted…”  
  
“You’re quite spitty.” Noel strokes the spot where he hit Russell seconds before, then  
winds his fingers through Russell’s hair holds him close. Their lips slide together again and Noel tightens his grip, tugging on Russell’s locks and refusing to let him slip away again. It is, Russell thinks, aces.  
  
“You’re quite close,” Russell says, very quiet. Everything is _very_ , right now.  
  
“Barely any room for jokes,” Noel notes.  
  
“Well, maybe a really thin, narrow one.”  
  
“Oh shit, that was it. No more room now.” Noel’s face is just a big, pale blur covering his field of vision. Russell swallows, and is about to speak when Noel interrupts.  
  
“Am I fucking things up? Shit. Sorry.” Noel seems casually disgusted with himself. “I’m joking, really. Do you want me to go?”  
  
“Possibly, but I don’t think so. I mean, there’s always a risk, right?” He lets his hands go where they want to go. He expected Noel’s skin to be cool, but he generates a surprising amount of heat.  
  
“But I don’t want to be like that.” Noel sounds genuinely worried..  
  
“I can’t promise anything. Don’t expect you to.”  
  
“No, I mean, am I being, like, bad for _you_?” Noel pulls away. “Sex that’s bad for you, I mean. Because I know you sort of explained it, but I don’t have a fucking clue how to do this the right way without-" and here his voice wobbles a bit, not quite breaking, “-turning myself into, um, a problem. If you want to do this at all?” Noel huffs in frustration. “Shit.”  
  
Russell flips a strand of hair out of his eyes. “It’s lovely, Noel, all this concern of yours. But it’s not all that complicated. You just have to give a shit.”  
  
“About you? I do! Or, I mean-?”  
  
Russell shrugs. “Whether it’s happening or not. If we’re with each other or alone or with someone else completely. Any of it.” It takes a few seconds, and then understanding washes over Noel’s face and his features sag almost imperceptibly with surprise, sadness and pity. In that moment Russell hates himself. It will never go away; that feeling of disgust each time he’s forced to acknowledge that he’s capable of fucking someone and feeling nothing but boredom, or nausea, or vague, weary anger. He has woken up next to people he hates, people he can’t remember ever meeting, people he’s not even curious to know. He’s had orgasms that felt like a light bulb burning out.  
  
When Noel kisses him again it takes a second before he kisses back, lips falling open against Noel’s in a soft, humid clinch. The validation he feels is the good kind, solid and calm. Going into sex without an overwhelming feeling of neediness or desperation is still somewhat new to him, but Russell finds that he enjoys it more every time.  
  
What’s really strange, though, is the fact that everything doesn’t feel _more_ strange. Physically, that is. It just all feels slightly more sexy than usual. He stops kissing to share this observation with Noel, and Noel laughs and says “I know! That’s exactly- mm! I know.” before they go back to kissing again. Noel pulls at the waistband of his pants until Russell finally shimmies out of them, still kissing, and kicks them away to tangle up with the bedclothes near their feet. In an instant Noel’s hand is there, cradling him, rubbing up and down his shaft while he murmurs happily into the space between their mouths. Russell can’t stop the shameful noises he makes in return, the little “ooh-I’m-so-naughty-and-sensual” moan that escapes his throat as Noel’s fingers trace up the underside of his cock.  
  
And he’s back in his head now a little, but he can’t bloody help it. With Noel, with a bloke, it’s not like simple old sex. It’s NEW, which is always fantastic, and it’s kind of postmodern, like sex about sex. He can’t stop noticing everything; the harsh sound of their breathing, the smell of Noel’s hair and the way his cheeks feel, smooth in one direction and lightly stubbled in the other. His solid, skinny limbs in the bed, and then the sensation of his cock, electric heavy and hot, skipping a bit as it trails up Russell's thigh and settles against his hip.  
  
“Noel.” Speaking makes him dizzy, the sound of his own voice in this room, bouncing off Noel’s skin, makes him blush. “Noel, I-”  
  
“Shhh. I’m gonna-” More kissing, deep, incoherent, and with teeth. “Do you want to come in my arse or in my mouth?”  
  
Russell’s cock practically jumps out of Noel’s hand at the thought, and he swears he can actually _hear_ the smirk on Noel’s face. If he tries to answer, the whole question will become moot right away. He has to do something to keep himself from thinking about what Noel will let him do, all the things that Noel will let him do, so he finds Noel’s cock and starts to figure out what on earth he’s meant to do with that instead.  
  
It’s not difficult. “But it is hard,” he says aloud, making Noel giggle in confusion and then sigh with heartfelt appreciation. Russell rolls on top of Noel and straddles his thighs, which causes their erections to bounce together in such a ridiculous way that he can’t keep from laughing at the sight.  
  
“What?” Noel gasps, craning his neck to see what Russell sees. “God, you idiot!”  
  
“S’like, um-” Russell takes Noel’s hands and brings them together with his, four hands and two dicks, all rubbing together. “-those clowns, what are they…” Noel swipes his thumbs over both their heads and Russell gasps and starts to ride him just a little. It feels adolescent again, like a mock up of sex, but that doesn’t make it any less pleasurable. “ _fuck_ … punching bags, you know?” Noel groans in what sounds like agreement or aggravation or ecstasy and twists under him, tensing up and then bucking his hips up against Russell as he comes. The heat that spills over his hands jerks Russell back into fascinating, oh-my-god-it’s-gay territory in a flash, and while he can’t say he’s aroused by the smell of Noel’s semen, he’s certainly captivated by it. His body goes slack with Noel’s and he waits, until it feels awkward to still be sitting on him and he has to climb off awkwardly to recline on the sheets again. Noel rolls over and plants a practical, grateful kiss on his lips, and then before Russell quite knows what’s happening Noel is sliding down the bed with the obvious intention of sucking him off.  
  
“I didn’t _say_ mouth,” Russell remarks, grabbing a pillow and passing it down for Noel to make himself comfortable with.  
  
“Yeah yeah, relax.” Noel zeroes in on Russell’s cock with a “target acquired” sort of intensity. “You’ll be fine with it, trust me.”  
  
And Noel’s right, he is.  
  
***  
  
Another note in Russell’s Gay Sex Observation File: two men have a way of messing up a bed that tops any tangle of linens he’s ever created with a woman. Probably even with two women. The ejaculation is only part of it. Somehow they seem to have not only pulled the fitted sheet off the corners of the mattress, but twisted it upside down as well.  
  
Russell runs his foot across the quilted texture of the mattress, then kicks at the duvet and slides it the rest of the way off the bed. “D’you mind if I graphically describe every detail of this liaison to Matt?”  
  
“Matt Morgan? Um, as long as it’s not on the radio.” Russell shakes his head dismissively at the possibility, and then Noel shrugs. “Sure. Nice of you to ask. I plan on letting all the red tops bid for my story.”  
  
“I can give you money, dear, if that’s what you need.” Russell delivers this to the ceiling, but with full dramatic commitment. “I can provide for you, you don’t have to sell yourself no more!”  
  
Noel only giggles in response. They lay there for a while more, and then a thought occurs to Russell.  
  
“That was a bit unsafe, you know. All those fluids and such. And me with so much latex available in any one of these bedside drawers.”  
  
“If you’ve given me anything new, I’ll…” Noel thinks. “Well actually I’ll be quite unimpressed.”  
  
“Unruffled?”  
  
“Yeah. Unfazed, like.”  
  
“Ditto. Just so you know.”  
  
“Well alright then, that’s settled.” Noel sighs in disgust. “Christ, what a couple of amateurs.”  
  
“We’ll be more professional next time.”  
  
Noel, smiling, rolls over to look at him. “Yeah? Next time? I thought you’d say that.” And the smile turns to a grin of what can only be labeled as triumph. Which is fine with Russell. As long as there’s _something_ at stake, he’s happy too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this piece back in 2008. It started as stream of consciousness notes about how a friendship between two mascara'd princes like Noel and Russell might work. 
> 
> Finally, I'm a queer, non-binary trans person, and the characters' views on gender and sexuality are their own, not mine. Russel's casual objectification of sex workers also does not match my own ethics. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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